“Try to relax.”
Yes, of course, easy. Something is scraping against the inside of my hand, on my bone.
Mr. Wallend’s hair is wavy and still. I’m still too.
When the scraping stops I feel sick, dizzy.
Mr. Wallend looks up. “Not too bad, hey? Now, the thing to remember is that it won’t come off. Ever. It’s inside you now. If you try to remove it with scarring of the skin, say, it will reappear. So there really is no point in trying.”
He looks at my hand again, smoothes it over with his finger. It feels bruised and tender. “The code looks very good. Very good indeed.”
He’s moving down the bed.
“Now the ankle. Try to relax. It’ll just be a few seconds.”
I can’t help but try to pull away, however feebly. It seems more than a few seconds that it’s scraping into my bone and through into my marrow. The gag’s in my mouth and I know I mustn’t be sick.
“It takes longer on the bigger bones,” he says. “Just the last one now.”
He moves the machine round the table, disappearing from sight and reappearing on my right side.
He puts the machine on my neck.
Oh no . . . no . . . no . . .
“Try to calm yourself.” He leans forward, his face close. “It may feel a bit strange here.”
I am lying on a thin mattress, curled up. My right wrist is handcuffed to the metal bar of the bed. I can feel where I’ve been codified. My fingers and hand feel bruised. My ankle is the same. But my throat is more than that. There is a taste, a metallic taste.
I haven’t opened my eyes yet. I woke up here some time ago.
I want to go back to my cage.
An image of Mr. Wallend comes into my head and he smiles at me. I open my eyes.
This cell is different from the stone cell. This one has a medical feel to it, like Room 2C. The room is lit by a weak, white glow emitted from a small light in the corner of the ceiling. In the other corner of the ceiling is a camera. The cell is empty except for the bed.
I raise my left hand to look at it.
B 0.5
It’s a black tattoo. The one on my ankle is the same.
So much for being designated as a White Witch. To them I’ll always be half Black.
I heal my hand and finger. The bruised feeling goes. The same works for my ankle and my neck. Slowly the taste fades and the buzz arrives. I curl up and look at the tattoos on my little finger. Three tiny black tattoos: B 0.5.
I need a plan.
The light is on so that they can watch me. I resist looking at the camera.
The nail is still in my mouth. I bite through my cheek and slide the nail out with my teeth and tongue, taking it with my left hand as if I’m wiping my lips. Picking the handcuff lock isn’t difficult, though I have to do it while hiding what I’m doing. I leave the cuff on but open.
Now I have to get in role.
I start shaking and then fling my legs around, make choking sounds and grabbing at my throat. I only have to keep it up for twenty seconds before there is the sound of a bolt sliding back. I roll onto the floor, my right hand still looking like it is cuffed to the bed. My eyes are open but hidden under my arm.
The legs and bottom of the lab coat of Mr. Wallend rush toward me; he really must be worried. The black boots of a guard stop in the doorway.
Mr. Wallend bends over me, and I pull him down, punch his face, roll up to standing, and stamp on his balls.
The guard is in and grabbing at my arm. I kick his knee. There’s a crack and the guard grunts and falls backward, but his arms are long and there’s no room to get back from them. He’s pulling me with him and I twist and roll to the side where I can kick his knee again. He’s still got my arm, and his other arm swings over and catches my ear with a glancing blow. I slither around and kick him in the face. His grip loosens, and after another kick I pull away from him. He is quiet. Mr. Wallend is quiet too.
I get up and out, slide the door shut, and bolt it.
I’m holding the bolts in place and leaning against the door, in shock at how easy that was. My ear is throbbing fast, in time with my heart. I heal my ear.
If anyone else was watching the camera they’d be here by now.
I go left, passing Room 2C, and then turn right, away from the cell and up the stone steps. Along the corridor to the left, the way I was brought in, and still no one is coming. I slowly swing open the door at the end and peer through. Another corridor that’s vaguely familiar, but they all look pretty much the same. I stride down it, past an internal courtyard, which I have definitely seen before, but I can’t remember how it relates to anything else.
I keep going. It’s not looking familiar now. I go left and left again. The door at the far end begins to open and I nip down another corridor to the right and dash as quietly as I can to the door at the end. It’s bolted. I can hear footsteps down the far corridor.
The bolt is stiff, but I can jiggle it across. Faster . . . faster . . .
The footsteps are getting louder.
I slither through the door, closing it silently behind me.
I want to laugh at my luck, but I hold my breath and flatten myself against the door. I am in the courtyard where Celia’s van picked me up and dropped me off. Her van is not here. There are no vehicles. There is a high brick wall with razor wire on the top. In the wall is a solid metal gate to allow vehicles in, and near the gate is an ordinary wooden door. It’s probably locked, alarmed, protected by security spells of some kind, but maybe just a spell to stop people getting in, not getting out . . .
I keep close to the walls as I move quickly round the edge of the courtyard. The wooden door is bolted top and bottom. These bolts slide easily.
The whole thing feels too easy.
And I’m now terrified of what’s on the other side of the door—the disappointment of seeing a guard standing there.
I open the door slowly, silently.
No one’s there.
I am shaking. I step through the door and close it quietly behind me.
It’s an alley. Narrow, cobbled. And above is the sky; it’s gray and overcast, early evening.
A person walks past the end of the street. An ordinary person talking on a mobile phone, just walking, looking ahead. Then a car goes past and a bus.
My knees feel weak. I don’t know what to do.
PART FOUR: FREEDOM
Three Teabags in the Life of Nathan Marcusovich
I’ve been free for ten days. I’m okay. I’m in a house in the countryside, just having a cup of tea. I come in here most days but sleep in the woods a mile away. The woods are okay. They’re warm and I can hear if anything approaches. Nothing human ever does. It’s good not to be in the cage. I slept better in the cage, though. I’m having constant nightmares now. The nightmares don’t sound that scary—I’m just running and running in the alley by the Council building.
Food was a problem before I found this place. It’s a holiday home and hardly used. I managed to break in just by messing with the lock with a bit of wire. I shower in here most days, and sometimes I lie on one of the beds upstairs, like Goldilocks, only I never sleep. The beds are all really soft, and there’s porridge too, which is sort of funny.
There’s pasta and cereal in the cupboard, as well as the oats, so mainly I’m living off that. There’s no milk, of course, so I make porridge with water. No lumps in my porridge, but I’ve used up all the honey, jam, and raisins so there’s not much else in it either.